


Situation Normal

by Apetslife



Category: Live Free or Die Hard
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-07
Updated: 2008-05-07
Packaged: 2017-10-17 15:41:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apetslife/pseuds/Apetslife





	Situation Normal

Six months after the Fire Sale, and everything is back to normal. Well, mostly normal. Normal-ish. John gets up every morning, gets dressed, goes to work, gets his paycheck, goes home, lifts weights, jerks off, and goes to sleep. Only now, every once in a while, he talks to Jack, to Lucy, even to Holly. No one is more surprised than he is about that.

Yeah, Holly. She'd called after it all went down, screamed at him for half an hour for putting their daughter in danger, and then, when he was mid-wince and wondering how many times he'd have to say "sorry" before it would sink in, she'd asked how he was. How he, John, was doing. And he'd found himself telling her, and she'd made sympathetic noises, and sure, it's not like it was before. It'll never be like it was before. But he's remembering how much he genuinely likes Holly, what made him fall in love with her in the first place. She's funny and sharp, no-nonsense, and she's never been afraid to tell it like it is.

They talk about the kids a lot, just chat a couple times a week, catching up. It's nice. Makes him feel a little less lonely. Sure, maybe it's not manly to admit it, but he's not so blind that he doesn't notice his own empty apartment, the way there's no one for him to talk to on weekends, the way nobody's there to notice when he comes home with a black eye from some junkie who's never heard his name and couldn't care less anyway. It sucks.

So when Holly asks if he wants to get together for Christmas, all of them, the family, he doesn't even have to think about before he's saying yes. He has more vacation time than he'll ever use, and even though he doesn't really want to go to California—ever again--the idea of seeing Jack again, spending some actual time with him and Lucy, together, it's too tempting to resist. Lucy's been busy with school, anyway, and he hasn't really had a chance to catch up with her. Find out how her love life's going. See if she's been seeing that hacker kid, that Matt. It's just curiosity, of course, he assures himself. Nothing more than that.

Once he's brushed off all the jokes from the guys at the precinct about alerting the California National Guard that he's coming, and the jokesters offering him extra guns and vests and ordnance, the idea of getting out of town is even kind of pleasant.

"John." Holly's waiting for him at the airport, which is a nice surprise, and she's smiling all big and pretty, which is even nicer. She walks into his hug, holds him close, and kisses his cheek, and he's shocked to realize that there's no sinking in his stomach, no flutter in his pulse. Just warm, friendly pleasure at seeing her, and the nice feeling of holding someone he cares about.

"Holly," he says, with a smile of his own, holding her away from himself. "Man, you look fantastic."

"Flatterer," she grins at him, shaking her curls, red now liberally sprinkled with grey. "You're not looking so bad yourself, old man."

He runs a self-conscious hand over his head, shaved clean for the occasion, then chuckles. "Old man is right. C'mon, let's get out of here. I hate airports."

"I can't imagine why." And there's that dry tone he's always liked, and she links her arm with his as they walk through the crowds to the garage. Shockingly, no one tries to shoot, stab, punch, or blow him up. He almost starts to relax.

"The kids are already here," Holly chats, negotiating out onto the freeway and into the insane LA traffic that had always driven him nuts out here. "Jack got done with finals two days ago, he's been pretty much sleeping since yesterday. And Lucy's plane landed last night, she's all settled in. They're excited to see you."

"It's gonna be nice, having everyone together," he nods, looking out the window. "Lucy mention if she's seeing anyone back at school?"

"John," Holly says warningly. "We talked about this--"

"No, hey," he protests, holding his hands up. Innocent. "Just asking. I haven't even asked _her_ , that's how great I've been. I should be gettin' some kind of father of the year award over here, seriously. I swear, I've been leaving her totally alone about her boyfriends."

She shoots him a suspicious sideways look, but he's really and truly innocent this time, and she relaxes. "You can ask her yourself, we're almost home," she says, and he sighs. That's gonna be a fun conversation.

"What about you?" She's watching the road, so he can watch her. "You seeing anyone these days?"

"Nah." He rubs his head again. "Haven't met anyone interesting, not worth all the effort. You?"

"Yeah." She's smiling a little, even though it looks worried and tense, and he's startled all over again that he's pleased for her, happy to see her happy. "Listen, I didn't want to tell you like this, but Sean and I, we've been seeing a lot of each other, it's getting pretty--"

"Hey," he cuts her off gently. She glances over at him, and he takes her hand. Gives it a little squeeze. "I'm sure he's not good enough for you, but if you're happy, I'm happy."

"Are you okay?" She squeezes his hand back, and now she looks even more worried. "You're not sick, or anything, are you?"

He chuckles, shakes his head. "Nah. No, I'm fine. Just been doing some thinking lately, you know? I guess...I don't know. We were good, though, back in the beginning, weren't we?"

"We were pretty amazing," she agrees, and keeps holding his hand, friends, for the rest of the drive.

***

Maybe that conversation sets the stage for the rest of the week, maybe it's just that John really is getting more mellow in his old age, but it's the nicest weekend he's spent with his family since the kids were in grade school. He even meets Sean. The guy's kind of a pussy, but he obviously adores Holly, and after sizing him up (and reading Holly's mess-with-him-and-I-kill-you look), they manage a halfway civil conversation, about baseball, of all things. When he gets back on the plane for New York, it's with a belly full of good homecooked food, a sore shoulder from playing football with Jack in the back yard, the peace of mind from knowing that Lucy’s currently single, and more warm family feeling than he's had in years.

***

"McClane?" He vaguely recognizes the voice, staticky and almost unintelligible over what sounds like a bad cell connection. John hauls his holster over his head, holding the phone against his ear with one hand, kicks the door closed behind him. First day back at work, always a bitch, and he’s tired and just wants to eat and settle onto the couch and watch the game.

“Yeah, this is McClane.” He tosses his bag at the couch, walks into the tiny kitchen and opens the fridge. “Who…Matt? Kid? That you?” He hasn’t seen the kid since that last press conference. “I can barely hear you.”

“Yeah, I know.” There’s a little edge to that voice, a note of hysteria that’s strangely familiar. “I secured the line, it makes the connection shitty. Listen, hey, I’d love to catch up, but I kind of have this problem right now, and I know I said I wouldn’t bother you anymore, but I think someone’s trying to kill me.”

John freezes, head half into the fridge, and stands up straight, hand going tight on the phone. “What do you mean? Kill you? Talk to me, what’s going on. You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay right now, I’m in hiding.” The connection gets a little clearer, a little less staticky, and John can hear that panic even clearer, and his stomach lurches. “I can’t tell you about it right now, you gotta come get me, I’m not fucking around, seriously, I am in so much trouble, I’ve been getting death threats and they’re getting worse.”

“You’re fine,” John says, going for “soothing” and probably ending up somewhere around “gruff.” “You and your conspiracy theories, c’mon, Matt, I bet it’s just one of your little hacker pals fucking around with you—“

“No, no, that’s not it!” Matt’s voice is getting higher and louder, a sure sign, McClane remembers, that he’s about to flip right out. “I’m not kidding—“

“Okay! Okay, all right, I’ll come get you.” Fuck, just what he needs after a day like today, to go babysit some paranoid kid with delusions of mortal danger. “Just tell me where. And you better not say Ohio or anything like that.”

“Oh thank god, oh, thank you,” Matt babbles, the relief in his voice almost palpable, and then there’s a pause, and when he starts talking again it’s rushed, nervous. “Your phone’s not secure, it’s not safe, I can’t tell you, I gotta go. I’ll…I’ll be at that place we talked about that one time in the car, where you said you’d never be caught dead? That place, the one closest to my old apartment, the one that blew up, only make sure you buy one of those disposable cell phones on your way, okay?”

“The…what? What the fuck, Matt, what are you talking about? What _place_ , wait—“ He’s talking to a dial tone.

That place he said he’d never be caught dead? What the hell?

Even as he’s rifling through his closet for his spare gun, packing a duffel with some shirts and an extra pair of shoes (he never goes anywhere without extra shoes), he’s running all those conversations from six months ago through his mind. He can picture them with disturbing accuracy, Matt’s eyes, the way he’d tilted his head curiously, the jitters and the grins and his weird tangents and even his smartass mouth.

Goddammit.

He wrenches his mind away from that, and back to the subject of where the fuck he’s supposed to find Matt. “That place.” Jesus Christ, they’d talked about a million places on that endless road trip around the mid-Atlantic, and he’d learned a surprising amount about Matt, the kid couldn’t shut up on a dare. He shoulders his bag, picks up the shoulder holster again, shrugs back into it, buttons his shirt over it, his jacket over that. “That place John wouldn’t be caught dead in,” and someplace in Jersey. Camden. Fuck, there are a lot of places like that. He grabs for his car keys—and groans.

***

“I want a coffee.” He’s in a staredown with the girl with the pink and green stripes in her hair, and the ring in her lip, across the counter. “Just a plain coffee. No flavor, no foam, no nothing. Just coffee.”

Her lip curls as she looks him up and down. The disdain would burn if he wasn’t halfway impressed with her stones. “Just plain coffee, right,” she says, her tone flat. “What size would you like that, sir?”

“Large,” he says evenly. “Please.”

“We offer tall, grande, and venti sizes, sir,” she says, tone almost dripping with saccharine. “Which would you prefer?”

Oh, for… he leans over the counter, looking her right in the eye. “Whichever one is the LARGEST one.”

She leans right back at him, until they’re almost nose to nose. “That would be the venti, _sir._ ”

“Then that would be the one I want, don’t you think?”

“It would seem so.”

“I guess so, then.”

“Then I’ll go get that for you.”

“All right, then.” He leans back, and she sniffs, and turns back to the wall of shiny machines. It looks like a goddamn spaceship back there, and all to make a freaking cup of coffee. Insane. He hates this place so much—

“John, oh my god, thank god you figured it out, hey, hi Marisa, I need a grande skinny soy cinnamon dolce latte, extra foam, oh, Jesus, thank god you figured it out.”

Matt’s a whirlwind of huge eyes and shaky hands and babble, and John spins and braces even though he recognizes the voice as soon as the door swings open. He’s got a shoulder bag slung around his body—probably has enough computers in there to take over NASA—and he looks like he hasn’t shaved or showered or slept in days.

“Kid, slow down.” John puts his hands up, using the voice he uses on his most strung-out suspects, the ones who look like they’re gonna blow. “Yeah, I figured it out, nice choice, thanks for dragging me out to Jersey for a cup of coffee. You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Not here.” Matt looks around himself, shifting from foot to foot, staying two arms-lengths from John, keeping one eye on the door all the time. “It’s not safe. C’mon, c’mon, grab your coffee, come on, we gotta go. Thanks Marisa, catch you later, gotta run.” He reaches for the cup with one hand, and John’s arm with the other, and tugs.

“Hey! Matt, relax. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on. Sit down, we’ll drink coffee, you can give me the rundown.” John’s actually starting to worry a little. Maybe it’s some kind of PTSD. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen it, especially in civilians who get caught up in the kind of shit that had gone down last summer. Maybe it’s all finally caught up to the kid, pushed him over some edge he hadn’t even known he was on.

“ _Not here_ ,” Matt insists, and John caves, because…because, shit, he’s missed the kid, and anyway, Matt’d proved himself pretty steady in the Fire Sale. John throws some money at the register, hopes it covers Matt’s ridiculous drink as well as his own, and lets Matt tow him out into the street.

“Where’s your car?” Matt asks quickly, quietly, still with that edge of panic, and John points, then unlocks it and lets them in. It’s his personal car, not the department vehicle…that whole LoJack thing still kinda creeps him out. “Come on, come on, drive, let’s go.” Matt’s still looking around like he’s expecting a bullet any second, and John can’t quite help but catch some of his urgency. He guns the car away from the curb and pulls into traffic, heading for the Jersey Turnpike. Lots of straight road, and rest stops every thirty feet, in case he needs to stop the car and smack some sense into Matt’s head.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on, or are we just going for a ride for our health?” he finally asks, after they’ve passed through the toll booth, and there’s nothing ahead of them but tail lights and black pavement. “Because if you called me out to fucking Jersey, on a work night, because of a bad dream, I don’t care how many times you saved my daughter’s life, I’m still gonna kick the ever-loving shit outta you.”

Matt’s got his face buried in his cup, and when he looks up, eyes still wide, he has a little foam mustache. John feels an unwilling smile pull at his own mouth. Fuck, the kid is cute. Kid. He’s gotta keep remembering that. Matt takes a deep breath, wraps both his hands around the cup like he needs the warmth, and starts talking. He sounds steadier already.

“A few weeks ago, I started getting these strange emails.”

“What, like penis enlargement, free Viagra, that shit?” John grins sideways. “You know those aren’t personal, right?”

“Oh my god,” Matt rolls his eyes, exasperation finally wiping out the fear, and John keeps grinning. “That’s _spam_ , you neander…no, you know what? I’m not getting sidetracked here by your weird Luddite tendencies. I started getting messages, to my personal email account, my SECRET personal email account, and they were really strange. They started out friendly, asking questions about the Fire Sale. I figured it was one of my buddies just screwing with me, nobody knows that address, you know?” He takes another drink, like he needs it just to keep talking. “I just kept deleting them. But they kept coming, and whoever was sending them knew way too much about stuff from last summer. Stuff that nobody should know if they weren’t there, you know? I did some searching, and whoever’s sending the emails, they’ve covered their tracks really really well.”

He picks at the edge of the cup. “Then they started getting weirder. Messages every hour, sometimes. Talking about how the person, whoever, knew about me, about everything I’d done, everything I was doing. One or two of them totally talked about me dying, DYING, like, saying I should’ve died in the Fire Sale, that kinda stuff. And then yesterday, I found this on my keyboard.” He reaches down, digs in his messenger bag, and comes up with a post-it note. Hands it over.

John lays it against the steering wheel and squints to see in the dim light. It looks like marker, some kind of red pen, and it says “BANG U R DEAD.” Just that. He feels something cold crawl up his spine, and for the first time, he starts to really think something might be going on, here.

“They were _in my place_ , McClane,” Matt says, urgent. “I was out getting _tacos_ for Christ’s sake, and I came back, and everything was normal, nothing was gone, but that was there. And okay, maybe I freaked out a little, but I’m not you, okay? I’m not used to this kind of thing happening to me all the time, I didn’t know what to do. I left, and I went to my friend’s place, I set up a secure line and I called you. I didn’t know what else to do. I’ve been walking around the block for hours waiting for you to show up.”

“Jesus.” John stares at the note for a second more, then hands it back, and white-knuckles the steering wheel. “Why didn’t you go to the cops? The feds? This is some creepy shit.”

“You _are_ the cops,” Matt says, drooping against the window. “And for all I know it’s the Feds doing it. They were super pissed when I wouldn’t take that job with them.”

“So they’re, what, cyberstalking you?” John gives Matt a skeptical look.

“Trying to freak me out. I know too much, they know I know it, and they’re all pissed off that I’m not under their control.” Matt hunches his shoulders up around his ears, sounding sulky now. And tired. “Maybe they think if I get scared enough I’ll come work for them for protection.”

“And maybe you’re a completely paranoid freak who shouldn’t be drinking any more coffee,” John points out.

“They were _in my apartment,_ ” Matt says again, and John has to concede the point.

“Did you check your shit for, I don’t know, tracking bugs or whatever?” He looks at Matt’s bag. Anyone who knows anything about Matt would realize he never goes anywhere without his gear.

Matt nods. “Yeah. I threw out all my old stuff, this is all new, even the bag, swear to god. I left everything in my place, I’m clean. Except, oh my god.” He turns huge eyes on John, he can see the whites around them. “You don’t think…when I was in the hospital…they wouldn’t put a chip in my head, right?”

“No, Matthew,” John says, patient even though he wants to laugh. “I’m pretty sure nobody put a chip in your head. We would’ve noticed the bald patch, if nothing else.”

“They could chip YOU no problem then,” Matt grumps, and John laughs.

“True enough. Okay, since nobody’s put chips in anyone’s brain, and you’re clean, what do you say we pull off here somewhere. Get a hotel room, you can get some sleep, I can make some calls.” Matt’s looking like three days of rough road, and John would like him a little more coherent than this, if shit really is going down.

“NO CALLS,” Matt stresses, chilly fingers locking on John’s forearm, and John shakes him off irritably.

“Quit grabbing me. Fine, no calls about you, but I gotta call the precinct and get tomorrow off. There’s no way I’m driving back from here tonight, so you’re stuck with me, kid.”

“Thank god,” Matt says again, heartfelt, and John can’t help but feel warmed by it. “Seriously, though, you’re not gonna call the FBI, right?”

“Seriously, I swear,” John promises, and gets off at the next exit.

The room is tiny, and smells a little musty, the way low-end motels always seem to. John is bummed about the one king-sized bed, but pleased to note that they did get an end-of-the-hall room (closer to the stairs) and one only one floor up. And Matt’s staggering so badly by the time he keys them into the room, John has to grab him by the shoulder to keep him from tripping on the edge of the rug.

Matt kind of crumples against him, and John sighs, getting one arm around his waist and heaving him towards the bed. Matt doesn’t even get his shoes off before he’s flopping face-down across the mattress, and John rolls his eyes, tossing his own bag at the one spindly-looking armchair, moving around the room, checking the doors and windows, peeking into the bathroom. Holly had always objected to his ‘paranoia,’ but Matt’s watching him with such naked gratitude on his face as he tests the locks and sets the deadbolt that John actually feels a little uncomfortable.

“Take your shoes off, kid,” he says, turning to check the window latch one more time before pulling the drapes closed on the lovely view of the empty pool, dusted with snow. “Get some sleep.”

“You’re not leaving, right?” Matt’s eyes are barely open, but they’re still tracking John around the room.

“Definitely not leaving. I’m gonna sit right here, make my calls, then grab a nap myself. Tomorrow we’ll figure out what to do. Go to sleep, Matt.”

“’kay.” Matt’s eyes close for a long moment, then fly open again. “Don’t leave.”

“I’m not going to leave,” McClane repeats, sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, phone in hand. He has to call the precinct, let his boss know he’s in who-the-fuck-knows-where New Jersey with a paranoid hacker at his side.

“Okay.” Matt says again, his voice mushy with sleep. The next time McClane looks down at him, he’s obviously out, face turned to the side, breathing deeply and steadily. John reaches over without even thinking about it, brushes his hair out of his face, and Matt doesn’t so much as twitch.

Sighing, he crosses his feet at the ankle, makes sure his gun is close to hand, and dials the office. This is gonna be a fun one to explain to the Captain.

***

Warm. Too warm, really, and John turns irritably, kicking his feet away from the source of the heat, his eyes still firmly closed. His alarm hasn’t gone off yet, it must still be early, and if the fucking super doesn’t get this steam-pipe problem fixed soon, he’s going to file a complaint. Seriously, this time.

The heat makes a sound, and John’s up and on his feet, tensed and ready to punch, before his eyes are even fully open. As he blinks, it comes back to him—Matt, the car, the coffee, the motel. Shit. He’d fallen asleep, obviously, and now…

Matt’s head, hair fluffed in all directions like a dark brown dandelion, pops up over the top of the blanket, and he does some blinking of his own at John, who’s staring at him.

“Morning?” Matt’s voice is a rusty rasp, and he’s got sleep crusted in the corners of his eyes, and a red line from the pillow down the side of his face, and that ridiculous _hair._ John feels his mouth twitch into a smile.

“Morning.” He relaxes, and moves to the window, stretching as he does, feeling his shoulders and neck crack and pop and settle into place. Ouch. It’s actually morning, too, grey light filtering in through the dirty window as he twitches the drape aside to peer out. “Slept about ten hours, there, kid. Feel better?”

“Yeah.” Apparently at some point, Matt had woken up enough to strip out of his clothes, and John gets an eyeful as the kid scrambles out of the bed and makes a beeline for the bathroom, wearing nothing but a thin, ratty old pair of boxers that are hanging precariously off his hips. John can see the dimples in the small of his back, and sighs, bringing up a hand to rub his eyes and pinch at the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves this.

“If you’d drink less coffee at night, you wouldn’t be so desperate for a piss,” John calls as he roots around the bed for his phone, lost in the blankets somewhere in the night, and gets a snort in return, before hearing the toilet flush and the water run.

“Blasphemy,” Matt calls back, sounding a hell of a lot more cheerful than he had the night before. “You can never have too much coffee.” When he emerges the ends of his hair are damp and dripping a little, and he’s bright-eyed and smiling, hitching his boxers up with one hand. John says a quick prayer of thanks. The trail of dark hair down that smooth belly is doing enough to his equilibrium, without an impromptu strip show to top it off.

He’s definitely too old for this. “What’re you so cheerful about?” he grumbles, heading to the bathroom himself to splash some water on his face, get himself a little more alert.

“I just had my first decent night of sleep in about a week,” Matt’s voice comes to him over the sound of splashing water. “I’m actually almost feeling kind of sane, it’s awesome.”

“Sane might be pushing it,” McClane murmurs, burying his face in a scratchy motel hand towel, scrubbing at the skin, waking himself up. He’s not even sure if he’s talking about himself or Matt, anymore. He stares at himself in the mirror, grimaces at his wrinkles and the bags under his eyes, sighs, and heads back out to face the music. Creepy emails and stalkery post-it notes, right. He’s still not completely sure this isn’t some prank by one of Matt’s friends, but Matt seems convinced, so he has some detecting to do. At least he’s got some experience with that.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Matt’s wearing clothes again, thank god. John breathes a silent sigh of relief, digs in his bag for a clean shirt, and slides into it, buttoning it over his tank. Layers, he’s found, can be useful in all kinds of situations. When he sits on the edge of the bed to shove his feet into his boots, Matt sits next to him, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin against John’s arm.

Hasn’t anyone ever taught this kid about the merits of _personal fuckin’ space?_

“So, what’s the plan. I mean, you’ve gotta have a plan, right? Because “kill them all and save Lucy” doesn’t apply so much in this situation, you know. Not that it didn’t work last time, it did, it really did, but I think maybe there should be a little more thinking and a little less shooting at this point—“

“Matt.” John turns, one boot still untied.

“Yeah?” Huge brown eyes meet his, wide and hopeful, and Matt’s smiling. Fucking kid.

“Nothing. Never mind. Plan, right. So, tell me again about these email things. I mean, you said you couldn’t figure out who they were coming from, right?”

“Right.” Matt settles back, clearly satisfied, and John wishes for coffee. Desperately. “They came through two anonymizers and a public email service. No way to trace them back to their originator, no way to even find out what _country_ they came from. It could’ve been my next door neighbor.” He pauses, looks queasy. “Which I really hope it isn’t, because Mr. VanDerPlotz is like, seventy, and he’s got this skin condition…anyway, hey, do you think they have coffee at this place?”

“You’re readin’ my mind, kid.”

“ _MATT_ ,” Matt stresses, getting that line between his eyes. “I’m almost twenty-six, legal for everything, and I have a name and I know you know it.”

“Oh yeah?” John stands up, gets away from that distracting warmth—what, is the kid some kind of space heater or something?—and slides his holster on, feeling the gun heavy, snug, and comforting against his ribs. “Well, it’s barely light outside, I told my boss I needed the day off for personal reasons, which I am going to catch a lot of hell for tomorrow. And I haven’t had my coffee yet, so for now, be glad I’m not calling you ‘hey you little asshole,’ and get your shoes on so we can get out of here.”

“God, you’re cranky,” Matt bitches, but he does as he’s told. “Are we checking out, now? Where are we going?”

John raises an eyebrow at the “we,” but shrugs. “I dunno. No, leave your shit here for now, we don’t have to be out till noon, and it’s…” he checks his watch, “not even seven yet, Jesus. We can grab coffee and whatever, come back here, and you can tell me the whole story.”

“I did tell you the whole story,” Matt says, his voice muffled by the sweatshirt he’s pulling over his head. “Last night. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t dreaming that.”

“Yeah, well, you can tell me again.” John leads the way out of the room and clatters down the stairs, Matt at his shoulder, following the scent of fresh coffee once they get to the lobby area, and filling two cups each in respectful, appreciative silence.

Maybe Matt drinks the girly coffee drinks, John thinks, but at least he appreciates caffeine the way he should. Another thing to like about the kid, like he needed one. He shakes his head at himself and grabs a few bagels, some of those little packets of cream cheese that always taste like plastic, and a couple of muffins. Noting with approval that Matt has stocked up as well, he leads the way back to the room, pointedly ignoring the little happy cooing sounds Matt’s making over his cup.

Okay, maybe the kid appreciates the coffee a little _too_ much.

The story is pretty much the same, even with Matt more clear-eyed and coherent. He’s genuinely freaked, John can tell that much by the way he stands up and paces, shoving his hands through his over-long hair in agitation as he reels off the details. The emails, the contacts, the note. His own panic, and then calling John, because he didn’t know who else to call, where else to go.

“Any chance that fat little bastard, what’s his name, Freddy, could figure out what’s going on?” John hazards to suggest once Matt’s wound down again and is drinking his coffee. “See if he can trace the emails, or whatever?”

Matt draws himself up, all injured pride. “If I can’t trace it, he can’t trace it.” He deflates again. “And that’s probably bad. I mean, I can trace just about anything, so this guy, whoever, he’s good. He’s really good, and that’s bad.”

“Better than you and Freddie?” John’s skeptical. He hadn’t understood even a hundredth of what was going on during the Fire Sale, but he’d gathered that Matt and Freddie are pretty fuckin’ talented in ways he can’t even imagine.

“It’s not _better_ , it’s just _different_ ,” Matt answers quickly, a little defensively. “I mean, it’s like some kind of global hide and seek or something, he could be anywhere in the world, it could be literally anyone. And me and Freddie, sure, we’re the best at some things, but finding some chickenshit hiding behind a thousand routers and network layers and different…whatever, just, it’d be impossible.”

“He couldn’t be anywhere.” John takes a bite of his bagel and grimaces at the stale, chewy texture. Maybe living in Brooklyn has spoiled him a little. “He has to be somewhere close enough to get into your apartment when you were out getting tacos.”

Matt blinks at him, one of those long slow blinks that means his brain just kicked into overdrive, and John waits patiently. The kid’s face brightens, then scowls, then brightens again, then settles into neutral. “Yeah, okay, he’s close. But he could still be bouncing his emails off some server in Siberia or whatever.”

“You know, you kids, you get so used to thinking in digital speak or whatever it is, you forget about the regular normal stuff,” John sighs. “He was _in your apartment_ , Matt. If he’s anything like you and Freddie, I bet you ten bucks he didn’t wear gloves. And if he didn’t wear gloves, he probably left a fingerprint somewhere.”

“Fingerprints?” Matt laughs a little, shakes his head, and then scrunches up his nose. John firmly tells himself that it’s not adorable. “That’s so…1980’s Law and Order.”

“It’s called actual police work, you little shit,” John says affectionately, gulps down his coffee, and slaps the kid upside his head as he walks past him towards his bag. He ignores Matt’s wounded yelp. “Come on, get your stuff. We’re going back to your apartment, and you’re paying me back for the gas. Servers in Siberia, Jesus Christ.”

When he glances at Matt again, the kid is grinning, and John can’t imagine why, but he finds himself grinning back.

***

Weirdly enough, John thinks as he parks the car yet again in Camden, he figures he’s talked more to Matt in the last few months than he has to anyone except maybe Holly and the kids, and most of that talking has happened in a car. During the Fire Sale, he’d talked in the car to keep himself awake, and despite Matt’s babble, he’d proved to be a pretty good listener. And now, again, Matt’s somehow drawn him out into talking about what’s been going on since he’d seen him last.

John doesn’t _do_ chatty friendly catch-ups. But something about those brown eyes, intent on his and interested in what he’s saying, gets him talking like he’s some housewife at a coffee klatch.

“I gotta say, I always kind of thought you’d end up getting back together with your wife, after,” Matt’s saying conversationally, though he’s looking away as he gets out of the car, not meeting John’s eyes, which is strange enough that John wonders about it for a moment. The kid’s usually always looking at him, he’s got those eyes like lasers, as sharp as the mind behind them. “I mean, you said, how the last couple times you saved the world, you and her ended up back together.”

“Guess we’re both pretty much over that,” John answers, checking the locks before pocketing the keys. Fuckin’ Jersey. Bunch of savages in this state. “Maybe we’re just both too old.”

Matt snorts, an inelegant sound. “Yeah, right. You’re ancient, all right. You’re in better shape than most guys my age, I don’t think you have to worry about much, there.”

John’s absurdly pleased that Matt’s noticed, and grimaces at himself. Ridiculous, McClane. “Yeah, well, whatever. Why’re you so curious about that, anyway? And don’t think I’m complaining here, but you never did call Lucy. She asked about you at Christmas.”

Matt’s gaze slides away from John’s again, and he leads the way into his apartment building—slightly nicer than the last one, but only slightly—with a quick step. “Guess your warning must’ve made an impression,” he says, but it sounds almost like a question. He turns the key in the lock, and steps inside. John’s about to press him on the answer, it’s so obviously bullshit, but—something slams into his head, and everything goes dark.

***

On more than one occasion, John’s had doctors congratulate him on his remarkably hard head. Without it, they’ve said, he’d have been dead about eight times over.

 _Better make it nine,_ he thinks fuzzily, blinking his eyes open carefully, then wincing them closed again as the dim light pierces them and makes his head throb like someone’s beating a drum inside his brain. Ouch. OW.

Weak sounds filter in, slowly, through the painful throb of his pulse in his ears and the buzzing of his headache. A voice, low and…cajoling? And then a muffled sound, almost pained, and it comes back to him…the call, the drive, _Matt_.

He gets his eyes open and keeps them open this time, ignoring the pain with the ease of long practice. He tries to check his gun and hits resistance…he’s on the floor, his hands are tied together. Okay. Okay. He doesn’t move, just sweeps his eyes across the room.

The place is a dump, no surprise there, and the lights are low, like the curtains or shades are all drawn closed. He can see the legs and feet of someone standing and moving around a little, and then more legs…he recognizes those shoes. Matt’s ratty Converse, shit, SHIT.

“You had to make this difficult,” a strange voice says, almost whining, and John pays attention. This must be it, must be their guy. As nice as it is for him to make himself known so quickly, John could’ve wished for a less painful introduction.

“Mmmmpf, mmmf, MMMM,” Matt says, and okay, clearly the guy has taped his mouth shut. John has a moment of wry sympathy, thinking of the times he’s been tempted to do the very same thing, and then has to tamp down the urge to crawl over and kill this guy with his _teeth_. The guy--big, but soft, out of shape, shaggy hair, looks young--has his hand on Matt’s head, he’s stroking his hair, what the fuck.

“I responded to your profiles,” the guy goes on, still in that whining, persuasive tone that grates on John’s ears. “I figured out it was you. I’ve been your biggest fan since you were on CNN, Matt. Matt Farrell, the guy who took down Thomas Gabriel.” There’s a creepy kind of awe in his voice, now, and John starts to get a bad feeling about this. “Like a real hero. A real superhero, but smart, I knew you were smart.”

“Mmmmm!” Matt says, and John inches sideways, just far enough to look up and see his face. His eyes are huge, dark, terrified, and there’s a strip of shiny silver duct tape over his mouth. He’s staring straight at the guy, not blinking.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” the guy says, like he’s responding back, like he’s having an actual conversation with Matt. “I found you on MySpace, I commented, you never replied to me. And your Yahoo profile said you were looking for a nice guy. I’m a nice guy. You never replied, Matt! We’re perfect for each other and you never gave me a chance!” His voice rises to a slightly hysterical shout at the end, and then John can hear a deep breath, like he’s consciously calming himself down. “I was angry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” John watches him stroke Matt’s cheek in a grotesque parody of tenderness. “I never thought you should really have died. How else would people know that it’s our world, now, that the hackers own this planet? But I had to make you pay attention. You weren’t paying attention.”

“Mmmmph, mmferfmmmfer,” Matt says, and John’s pretty sure that whatever he said wasn’t nice. The slap the guy delivers to Matt’s face indicates that he gathers the same thing.

“Be polite, Matthew,” he says, and there’s that creepy tone again. “I don’t want to hurt you. I’m never going to hurt you unless you make me.” Matt’s head swings towards John, and the guy slaps him again, rocking him back in the chair that John can see he’s tied to, as well. “Don’t look at him. He’s dead, I’m pretty sure. The book said if I hit him behind the ear hard enough he’d die. You don’t need him, you don’t need anyone but me.”

John takes a moment to identify the slow burn his insides seem to be doing. Rage. Pure, cleansing rage, shaking the fuzz out of his head, clearing his mind, letting him focus. Loverboy there doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing, so John starts testing the knots on the ropes around his wrists, gently and slowly. Wouldn’t want anyone to know he’s awake. The rope is tight, and there’s a lot of it, but his fingers find the knot and slowly start to work it open.

Too slowly.

“I think you’re distracted,” the guy says, and John hears footsteps, and closes his eyes again, going still. “I think you’re paying attention to HIM. He’s a thug, Matt, you know that, right? He’s just dumb muscle. You need someone who’s smart like you, someone who can appreciate your talents. I’m that guy. We’re going to be great, you and me, you’ll see. I’m going to get rid of him now, I don’t like it when you’re distracted.” The guy giggles, and it’s the freakiest thing John’s ever heard. “Don’t go anywhere, now. We have so much more to talk about.”

Slitting his eyes open a little, John sees those feet approach, then stop. He tries to slow his breathing, play dead, but he can smell the guy when he bends down close. Ugh. That’s some seriously nasty BO.

“He’s still breathing.” The guy sounds disappointed. “I’m going to write a nasty review on Amazon, that book is publishing lies.” John feels a hand grab his arm, and tug, and pull. He makes himself dead weight. “If you’d come home like you were supposed to, alone, I wouldn’t have to deal with this,” the guy complains as he drags John towards the bathroom. “I’m very disappointed in you, Matt.”

John opens his eyes, taking advantage of the guy’s distraction, and looks right at Matt. Meets those huge scared eyes, and blinks once. Matt freezes, then blinks back, and it looks like he takes a deep breath. Okay, connection made. John works the knot harder, now, with the jostling of the dragging hiding his movements. Fuck, this is awkward. But there’s no way he’s letting this guy get him into the bathroom, where blood’s easy to clean and wash away. No way he’s leaving Matt alone with this freak.

He can’t get his hands free. Can’t, no matter how hard he works the knot, and he’s on tile, now, not wood, and he can hear rustling. _Fuck, fuck, fuck, think, John, think_. Then the guy whispers in his ear, breath sour and hot where it brushes John’s face.

“He’s mine, you hear me? MINE. Mine forever, mine, not yours, mine.”

John stops thinking.

In a surge, he’s on his feet, staggering as his bound hands knock him off balance. He lurches into the sink, then bounces back and charges the guy, shouting wordlessly as he slams his head into the guy’s face, knocking him back into the tub, bringing the shower curtain down with a crash and clatter of hardware. The guy screams, tangled in the vinyl, half in and half out of the tub. He’s big, bigger than John, but he’s slow and shocked and John grins viciously as he kicks him in the knee, then again, using the tub as a brace when he staggers back from his own impact.

The guy heaves himself out of the tub, red-faced and gasping, something insane in his eyes. He swings at John and John ducks it, hurling himself forward again, slamming his forehead against the guy’s chin, ignoring the shock of pain in his already-abused skull. FUCK if he’s gonna let this guy hurt Matt, the sick fuck.

This time when the guy straightens up, he’s holding John’s gun, and John bares his teeth at him.

“He’s MINE,” the guy hisses, and John laughs.

“You gonna shoot me, you fucking douchebag?” John’s voice is a rough, vicious rasp that he almost can’t recognize himself. “I’m gonna kill you and I’m not even gonna use my hands.” He takes a step forward and the guy freezes. “I’m gonna rip your spine out your mouth and strangle you with it. I’m gonna cut off your balls and stuff ‘em down your throat and then maybe, if you’re lucky, maybe then I’ll kill you.” He takes another step forward, and the guy takes another step back. “You won’t even leave a smear when I’m done with you. You think you rule the world? Let me tell you, buddy, there ain’t no keyboard here right now, and this is MY world.”

“Stop moving,” the guy says, but now his voice is shaking, and the hand holding the gun is shaking too.

“Fucking shoot me, then,” John taunts, taking a step forward, eyes flicking to what’s behind the guy. “Go ahead, shoot me. You know how many times I been shot? More than five. And I’m still here, and I’m still gonna kill you, no matter what you do.” One more step…the guy shifts his weight back…

“John!” That’s Matt’s voice, he’s loose, and the guy howls and swings his attention towards the door, and John moves. Dives, tackles the guy right into the tub. The gun goes off right by his ear, FUCK, he’d been hoping the safety was still on, the sound is deafening and sears his ear with a sharp pain, but he’s got the guy in the tub now, pinned with his own body weight, and he slams his head down once, twice, three times, seeing the nose explode in a spray of blood, gotta get him out before he gets that gun around…

“McClane! Holy shit, John, stop, you’re gonna kill him!”

He comes out of the haze with someone tugging on him, tugging him back, and he swings around with a snarl…but it’s Matt, Matt pale and shaky looking, with John’s gun in one hand and his other on John’s shirt, pulling. John stares at him, then slumps down. Aw, fuck, this guy stinks SO bad.

“John, come on, get off him, come on,” Matt begs, his voice sounding strange and tinny, and John finds the energy to get his knees under him, at least, and kind of lurch up sideways, using the shower wall as a brace. His fucking hands are still tied behind him, and he thinks maybe his shoulder is dislocated, and his head, Jesus, his head hurts so bad and he can barely hear. Matt grabs him and steadies him, and John steps out of the tub, turning around so Matt can get to his hands.

“Aaargh, motherFUCKER!” As soon as the rope is loose, the pain in his shoulder slices through him like fire. His bad shoulder, _again_. His physical therapist is gonna KILL him.

“Jesus, John,” Matt says, voice shaking, and John spins around, staggering a little when the room keeps spinning after he’s stopped moving, and then Matt’s hands are on his shoulders, steadying him again. “Holy shit, holy shit, oh my god.”

“Hey, easy, it’s okay,” John hears himself slur, and when he meets Matt’s eyes, he’s almost smiling. The bad guy’s down. Matt’s safe, he’s safe, sort of. “Matt, go get my cuffs, they’re in my bag, okay? Grab my cuffs. And then call 911. Go on, go.”

“Jesus,” Matt says again, and leans his forehead against John’s for a long moment. John breathes. When Matt pulls back there’s a smear of blood on his face, and John’s mouth twists as he wonders what he looks like. At least he doesn’t think much of the blood is his, though he hasn’t really had a chance to check. “You look awful,” Matt informs him.

“Sexy, right?” John laughs, rough.

“Yeah,” Matt admits, and even though he’s smiling, his eyes are serious and his hands are shaking.

John has no idea what to do with that, right now when his head is pounding so he can barely think, his shoulder a solid brick of pain, and he gives Matt a gentle push. “Go on, get those cuffs. I’ll watch Stinky here.”

“His name is Dave, he said, but I like Stinky better,” Matt says over his shoulder as he heads out towards the living room, leaving John leaning against the sink, fighting to keep his eyes open. “Hey, you need an ambulance?”

“Tell ‘em you’ve got an officer down,” John calls back, but there’s something wrong with his balance, his head, and he tilts sideways, or maybe that’s the room, and black sparkles start filling his vision.

“But you’re not down,” Matt argues, his voice sounding closer again, and John feels something pop inside his ear, a trickle of heat and that can’t be good, and then he’s feeling cold tile under his ass again and against his face, and Matt’s voice is coming from far away. “John—oh my god. Oh shit. _Officer down, officer down_ , do you hear me, there’s a police officer here and he was attacked, he just collapsed, get me someone _right fucking now_ …”

John closes his eyes.

***

Things are beeping, and his nose is burning with medical smell and the feel of a plastic tube, dry air forcing its way into him, and John can’t open his eyes. It’s quiet, except for the beeps, and he lets himself fall back into painless darkness.

***

He can hear voices. It sounds like Matt and…Holly? He really wants to wake up to see that conversation, watch them together, because he imagines it’d be pretty fucking funny, but he can’t hold on to the thought, can’t hold on to any thought, and he loses his grip again, and he’s falling, falling.

***

It’s dark, and quiet, and he actually gets his eyes open this time. The beeping is still there, and the burning in his nose, and he’s distantly aware of his shoulder, because it fuckin’ hurts. A lot. More of an issue is the ringing in his ears and the aching throb of his head, but he ignores it, makes himself wake up. Forces his brain back online.

It’s a little scary how long it takes before he can actually blink, but as long as he’s still breathing, he figures he’s okay.

He definitely doesn’t want to move his head, but he does look around. It’s your standard-issue hospital room, dim for nighttime. He’s been in more of these than he wants to remember, but this one doesn’t look like ICU, which is probably a good sign. He turns his head and moans at the pain, and there’s a flurry of motion and then he sees Matt, right there, so close he almost goes cross-eyed.

“John?”

“Unrgh,” John replies, brilliantly, and Matt’s grin almost blinds him.

“He’s awake!”

“Ow,” John moans as Matt’s voice rings in his head, and Matt looks apologetic, even as a nurse hustles in and starts taking readings and doing things with tubes that John doesn’t want to think about.

“Thank god, John, you scared the shit out of us,” Matt says, accusingly, and John would yell at him for that, but he’s holding a little straw to John’s mouth, and that water is the best thing John’s ever tasted. His mouth feels like a desert, and he sucks greedily, growling when it’s pulled away.

“Little sips,” Matt scolds him, and when John takes a better look at him, the kid looks like hell. Unshaven, a big bruise on his cheekbone and a butterfly bandage on the side of his neck holding a nasty cut closed.

“Y’okay?” he rasps, and Matt breathes out a shaky laugh.

“I’m fine, FINE, you lunatic. What were you thinking, you beat a guy half to death with your _head_ , you’re INSANE.”

“Didn’t have…no hands,” John explains fuzzily, and Matt laughs again, even though it’s pretty weak and his eyes are suspiciously bright.

“Only you, McClane,” he says, and leans in and presses his mouth to John’s, quick and hard, before pulling back just as quickly. “And you don’t get to kill me for that,” he adds hastily, looking worried, “because you totally saved me from becoming that guy’s sex slave or something, so even when you get better, don’t punch me, okay, because you’d probably break my face, and I’m seriously not as tough as you, so that would SUCK, and-“

“Shuddup,” John slurs, eyes already drifting shut, but he’s smiling, he can feel it. “’nother one.”

“Another what?” Matt’s leaning back, looking confused.

“AGAIN,” John stresses, and Matt blinks, and then kisses him again, a little longer and softer this time.

“This is too weird,” he declares when he pulls back, and John’s stomach lurches. “I can’t make out with you when you’re still barely conscious, it’s like, I don’t know, weird. If you wanna do this when you’re actually awake, let me know, and if you don’t, just don’t tell me, okay, because it would totally break my heart if this is just the drugs or something, but we should be friends at least, since you keep saving my life and everything, I figure at least we should hang out sometimes, even though you never even called me in MONTHS, but don’t think I’m letting you get away with that again—“

John closes his eyes, and he’s still smiling as he drifts off into sleep. Real, honest sleep this time, with Matt’s voice lulling him down.

***

It turns out that John’s shoulder is indeed dislocated, and in addition to a hairline fracture in his skull, he had gotten himself a pretty serious brain contusion somewhere in the scuffle. Swelling on the brain, the doctor tells him seriously off his blank look at the term, and they’d put him into a light coma to see if it would go down on its own. It has, apparently, but it’s been over a week, and he can’t believe he’s been out that long. He’s been half-drowned, thrown off buildings, blown up, beaten up, but one crazy hacker stalker guy puts him in a coma for a week?

Maybe he really is getting too old for this.

The thought depresses him enough that he eats the bland gelatin and toast that they bring him without once protesting or demanding coffee, and even that wears him out enough that when he’s done, he sleeps again for a while.

“Induced coma” was apparently enough to get Holly on a plane, too; he hadn’t been imagining her voice that one time, since she shows up in his room the next morning looking pale but calm, shaking her head and smiling at him.

“Really, John? You decided that fists were boring and you were going to start fighting with your face?” She pulls up a chair and settles in, and he’s ridiculously pleased to have something besides the white walls and the beeping machines to look at. “I always said you were hardheaded, but you didn’t have to go this far to prove me right.”

“I had my hands tied behind my back,” he shrugs, and then winces. Okay, no more shrugging for a while.

Holly sighs. “Well, at least you saved the day. Again. And survived, again, but this is getting a little ridiculous, you know. How many times are you going to end up in this hospital? This has to be some kind of record. They should set up a wing for you.”

“Lots of guys get hurt on the job—“ it’s their old familiar argument, and he cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “I wasn’t gonna let that psycho hurt the kid, okay? I could be eighty sittin’ in a wheelchair and I’d still try to stop that going on.”

Holly grins at him, that sly little twist to her mouth that means she’s thinking something wicked. “I met your…Matt,” she says, hesitating long enough before the name that he starts wondering what on earth the kid’s told her. “He’s an interesting young man. Very smart.”

“Yeah, he’s smart all right,” John grumbles, leaning back against the pillows. “Smart mouth, smartass, all those.” He’s really starting to regret that frank conversation he’d had with Holly way back when they were still dating, when he told her all about his college roommate Ben and what they’d gotten up to, naked, for pretty much the whole second semester of his junior year. Right now he’d like her to have a little less knowledge to work with.

“He told me he’ll be staying with you while you’re still recovering,” she informs him brightly, and now her eyes are positively, evilly gleeful. “He told me I really don’t have to stay, he’s got it covered. In fact, he’s probably talking to your doctor right now about your discharge instructions.” She leans forward. “So, John. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“No, there’s _nothing I’d like to tell you,_ ” he grouches, mimicking her tone. “Jesus, Holly, he’s only a couple of years older than Lucy. Give me a break. He’s a nice kid, that’s all.”

“A nice kid? You don’t even _like_ kids, except maybe your own, and Matt Farrell is definitely not a child. And I don’t know what’s going on between you, but you’d better not be a jackass.” She fixes him with a stern no-bullshit look, and his mouth snaps closed. “Don’t sabotage what could be a good thing, John, just because you’re too damn stubborn to bend.”

“Yes, ma’am,” John sighs, only a little sarcastically. He really, really does not want to be talking about Matt with Holly. It’s so fucking _awkward,_ no matter how amusing she seems to find the whole thing. “I’m not gonna be a jackass. Well, I probably will,” he acknowledges—fifty years of living with yourself, you’d better know at least that much—“but I’ll try not to make it too bad.”

“Good.” She finishes her coffee, ignores his pleading look at the cup, and stands up. “I have to book a flight home. Jack wanted to come, but since you weren’t in immediate danger I told him to stay in school. Lucy’s been in and out, but she has class today. I’ll find…Matt…and send him in.” There’s that wicked grin again, as she leans down to kiss his cheek, soft and warm. “He told me he thinks you’re quite the kisser,” she murmurs in his ear, and as he’s still gaping, she leaves the room.

He’s gonna _kill_ that kid.

***

His injuries this time are actually more dangerous than a bullet hole might be, or so they tell him, with all kinds of appropriate threats and warnings, as he’s signing himself out two days later. He’s supposed to take it easy, he’s supposed to rest, he’s supposed to have someone with him all the time in case there’re any unexpected moments of disorientation or unconsciousness. He grunts noncommittally at all of it, and jerks his thumb over his shoulder at where Matt’s hovering when they ask again if someone will be staying with him.

The kid’s been avoiding any one-on-one time with the skill of a pro since John woke up; first only showing up with Holly (watching them talk is just as amusing as John had imagined, and they seem to get along almost eerily well), then Lucy, then he'd been back at his own apartment to pack his stuff so he could come stay with John (which John still doesn’t remember approving, but whatever, as long as it gets him out of the hospital faster). He’s bright and cheerful and his regular self, mostly, but there’s a wariness in his eyes and the set of his shoulders that John’s not quite sure what to do about.

Well, they’ll have plenty of time once they’re at John’s place in Brooklyn. He’s on mandatory medical leave for at least another month, since apparently they don’t want a cop who might randomly pass out somewhere to be out on the streets, or even at a desk. John had called his Captain a “pussy who listens to doctors too much,” but he hadn’t really meant it, since he really does feel pretty shitty, still.

Lucy drives them home, since John can’t drive and Matt doesn’t even have a license. John closes his eyes really tightly and breathes carefully through his nose as they go through the Holland, then across Manhattan and over the river into Brooklyn. He taught her how to drive himself, it should all be fine, but he still slams his foot against the floorboard of the car when a cab swerves in front of them, like he’s stepping on an invisible brake pedal, and Lucy and Matt both snicker at him.

“I should’ve known you’d be a backseat driver,” Matt says to him, grin bright in the rearview mirror as John glances into it to see him in the back seat, leaned forward so he can chat with Lucy, comfortable like they’re old friends. He and Lucy, that is. He’s still not looking at John straight on, much, and John’s caught him more than once with a flush of red high on his cheeks.

Lucy snorts and rolls her eyes at the way John’s got a death grip on the door handle. “He’s actually dying inside because he’s not driving,” she tells Matt over her shoulder, and she and Matt both laugh, and John’s left scowling out the window. At least they’re not playing loud music.

Thankfully, by the time they reach his apartment, Lucy’s checking her watch and looking worried. “Hot date?” he needles as they turn the corner onto his street, and she flushes a little.

“None of your business, dad,” she replies coolly, and he laughs a little. That’s his girl. “You two play nice,” she warns them, and again, he wonders what Holly’s told her about him and Matt, what _Matt’s_ told her. It’s too much to deal with right now, and his head hurts like a sonofabitch, so he just kisses her cheek and staggers out of the car, blinking at the late afternoon sunlight and how much it hurts his eyes. Maybe the concussion’s not entirely gone, after all.

  
“C’mon.” An arm turns him away from watching Lucy drive off, and Matt’s got their bags and the keys, and he’s heading up the stone stairs like he’s the one who lives here, tugging John along behind him.

John’s more than willing to be tugged. His ears are ringing and his shoulder aches, and as soon as Matt opens the door (the place smells closed-up and dusty, and the super clearly hasn’t been in to fix the heat, since it’s like a sauna in the living room, and he can’t imagine what the bedroom must be like), he settles carefully on the couch, and leans his head back against the cushions, closing his eyes.

“Here, take your pills, c’mon. You can sleep in a minute,” Matt’s voice is soft and concerned. “Are you sure you’re okay to leave the hosp—“

“Don’t start,” John groans, taking the pills and the water and swallowing them down. “I’m gonna be fine, Lucy’s driving would make anyone feel a little sick.”

“Yeah, okay,” Matt sighs, definitely sarcastic, and John cracks an eye to give him a dry look. “You’re just a control freak who doesn’t like riding in the passenger seat,” he continues defensively, and John laughs a little.

“You noticed,” he tips the water bottle at Matt, who bobs his head and jitters around. John watches him. The kid cannot seem to be still; he sits for a second in the chair, then jumps up and rummages in his bag, then goes to the kitchen, then comes back with a Coke. Sits down, jumps up again.

“Do you need anything? Pillows, or, I don’t know, what do you even do? You probably polish your gun and watch Fox News, right? I don’t know if I can handle that, we might have to get you a Netflix account, or real cable, or something. How do you not have a cable box? I mean, you probably don’t have a computer—“

“Matt. Matt. MATTHEW.” Matt stops talking and looks at him. “Would you sit down and relax? I’ve got a huge fucking headache and you aren’t helping.” The moment Matt registers that and the second the crushed look that appears on his face, John feels like the biggest asshole in the world. “No, hey…”

“No, I’m sorry,” Matt blurts over his apology. “I mean, I invited myself here, I didn’t even ask, and you’re probably not even, I mean, you don’t have a guest room. And you never actually said it was okay for me to stay.”

“There’s a couch,” John points out, patting the cushion he’s currently sitting on. “It’s not the Hilton, but it’s not too bad. And they wouldn’t have let me out unless you were gonna stay here, or I’d have to go stay at Lucy’s dorm, and let me tell you right now, that would not have ended well.”

“That’s true,” Matt says, brightening just a little, and John feels like he’s won a fucking medal or something when the kid smiles. “I mean, it’s not like you’re supposed to be cooking, or cleaning, or anything like that, so you’re gonna need help, right? I can pay you back for saving my life seven times. Or however many it is now, I kind of lost count there for a while, do you think this one counts as once or twice?”

“Uh, I don’t know?” John closes his eyes and tips his head back again. “But can we work out the statistics or whatever later? I think I need to sleep now.”

“You’re not sleeping there,” Matt informs him, and wow, John hadn’t really realized just how bossy the kid could sound. “No sleeping on the couch for the guy with the brain injury, even I know that much. And they gave me instructions.” He waves some papers around, apparently what he’d been getting out of his bag. “You’re not supposed to sleep for more than four hours at a time, and I’ve gotta keep an eye on you. And no exertions…in bed or out of it…till your brain swelling is all gone. So be sure to heal up fast.” He does something crazy with his eyebrows that John thinks is maybe intended to look sexy and suave, and John bites his lip to keep from laughing.

“Okay, Nurse Farrell, I’m going, I’m going.” He braces his hands on the edge of the couch, feeling every minute of his fifty years weighing down on him as he slowly, slowly presses himself up to his feet. His shoulder shoots bloody fire down his spine, and he bites his lip again, this time for a whole different reason.

“Hey, here.” Matt’s really sturdier than he looks, John thinks blearily, as he drapes an arm over the kid’s suddenly-convenient shoulder, and feels an arm wrap firmly around his waist.

“Thanks,” John mumbles, realizing he’s a lot more tired than he’d even thought. His vision is still a little wacky, too, zooming in and out of focus quickly enough to make him feel a little dizzy and sick. The doctor had promised that would go away with time, but for now, it’s a real pain in the ass.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Matt reminds him, negotiating down the narrow hallway, past the bathroom, into the one small bedroom with the great view of the airshaft. He sets John down on the edge of the bed, then hurries around, opening the window a crack, kicking John’s running shoes out of the way from where they were sitting in the middle of the floor, turning on the bedside lamp. He looks an inch away from starting to fluff the pillows when John gives up and kind of keels over sideways onto the bed, sighing in relief as he gets horizontal.

“Come on, shoes off first,” Matt says, and tugs them off John’s feet for him. John would thank him, but his tongue feels strange and heavy in his mouth, and his eyes just won’t seem to open. The last thing he hears is the click of the light being turned off, then the door closing, and then he’s out.

***

The first time Matt wakes John up for one of his four-hour check-ins, John very nearly punches him in the face. He has to apologize profusely before Matt will promise not to just poke him with a stick from a safe distance, next time.

***

  
They settle into a rough routine over the next couple of days, and Matt calms down a little after that first night, which is great, because John kind of likes the kid and he might have had to kill him if he’d kept up the tweaky hyperactivity. Matt can cook things that come out of cans, and John can cook things that come out of boxes, so they get a little variation in their diet, at least. Their only real conflict comes when John wants to do something that Matt says is not in his permitted activities, from his release instructions, and they argue.

Apparently, even though John has a shriveled up, shrunken heart and a black pit for a soul (both direct quotes from people who know him pretty well), he’s incredibly susceptible to big brown eyes looking up at him and a particular tone of voice. Matt is not in any way an idiot, and John suspects he’s doing it on purpose. He can’t prove anything, but he always seems to end up back in bed, resting, after one of their little discussions.

On his third day home, John feels good enough to sit up for three straight hours without needing to take a nap, and they celebrate by ordering pizza, watching the Knicks get totally slaughtered at home, and mocking the announcers. Matt flails around a lot talking about how Isiah Thomas is actually the devil reborn, and describing some website that’s tracking the signs of the apocalypse based on his coaching record, and John laughs like he hasn’t in what feels like years.

Once in a while, just now and again and at odd moments throughout the days, John thinks about that kiss in the hospital. It’s a blurry memory, but a nice one. And Matt had apparently declared his intentions to Holly, if her innuendo during her periodic phone calls is any indication (he ignores it with great dignity, he feels), but so far, they’ve been nothing but buddies. Pals. John takes the couch and Matt sits in the chair, John goes to bed and Matt sacks out on the couch. John reads the paper, Matt messes around with the tower of computer equipment that’s slowly been migrating from Camden to Brooklyn, with every trip Matt takes.

If he’d been feeling any less like shit, John might’ve started to get a complex about the lack of any attempts at action. As it is, he’s pretty glad the kid’s not making any moves that John won’t be able to follow up on.

Things change a little on his fifth day home, though. His vision and hand-eye coordination have actually improved to the point where he’s shaving, standing in the bathroom after his first real honest to god shower, and he feels _human_ again. He studies his reflection in the mirror, and yeah, it’s not such a bad face. Scarred up, sure, and the nose is definitely not a thing of beauty, but it’s not so bad. A couple weeks of rest and clean living have actually gotten rid of the dark circles around his eyes he’d been sporting, there, and the bruises have mostly faded, and he makes a snap decision and gets out the clippers, starts buzzing off the stubble growing on his head. No need to advertise that hairline any more than he has to.

The phone rings, and he ignores it. Matt’ll get it.

The knock on the door is quiet, so much so that he almost doesn’t hear it over the buzz of the clippers. He finishes the last little bit behind his ear, then calls “C’mon in” while wiping his face down with the towel, brushing the short hairs off the back of his neck. He’s got just a towel wrapped around his waist, but hell, Matt’s probably seen him in less by now.

“That was the DA’s office,” Matt says, leaning a shoulder against the door, meeting John’s eyes in the mirror. His face is set and a little pale. “They’re scheduling a hearing for…Stinky. He’s being charged with all kinds of shit, I guess, including attempted murder of a police officer, but they still want us to give statements. I told ‘em you were still recovering and we’d call them back.”

“Huh.” John honestly hasn’t given much thought to Stinky over the last few days. It all comes back in a rush, the clenched-heart feeling of knowing that this guy was crazy, that he wanted to hurt Matt, a lot, that John was pretty much helpless to stop it. He drapes the towel around his neck, leans against the sink, and takes a deep breath. “Too bad I didn’t kill him.”

“Yeah, well.” Matt’s mouth twists in a parody of a smile. “Apparently he’s going for an insanity defense? Which I guess makes sense, since he’s fucking CRAZY, but still. They’re afraid he’s gonna get off, or get hospital time, or something.”

“Oh, fuck no,” John says, disgusted. “He knew exactly what he was doing. He _talked_ about it, for Christ’s sake. He was totally aware of his actions.”

“I know that, you know that, but still.” Matt’s hands are clenched in tight fists, John sees, as he wraps his arms around himself. “What if he gets off? On a technicality or whatever? It happens all the time on Law and Order. I mean, what if they didn’t read him his rights the right way, or he didn’t get a lawyer fast enough, or—“

“Kid.” John cuts him off, firmly. He’s discovered it’s one of the only ways to get the verbal flood stopped, once it gets going. Matt makes a face at him, he hates it when John calls him “kid,” but he does pay attention. “How many times I gotta tell you, Law and Order isn’t real? That psycho isn’t getting off, not if I have to beat sense into the lawyer myself. And if for any reason he hits the streets without a lobotomy, and he breathes air in the same state as you, I’ll find him and shoot him.” He frowns at his reflection. He missed a spot under his nose, shaving.

“You’ll find him and…shoot him?” Matt’s sounding the words out slowly, like he doesn’t quite understand them.

“Yeah, sure. No jury in the world’d convict me.”

Matt stares at him, and the next thing John knows, he’s got a whole lot of skinny hacker boy pressed up against him, hands on his arms, and a hot, clumsy kiss landing somewhere in the vicinity of his mouth. He’s so startled he can’t even react, not really, though he does get his hands up, and balances himself with a hold on Matt’s back.

“You are just…” Matt pulls back and looks at him, and John stares back, helpless and silent. “I have never met anybody like you in my whole life, you know that?”

“I get that a lot,” John tells him seriously, and there’s that brilliant grin he’s been waiting to see. He can’t help it, he has to smile back.

“Yeah, well, from now on, nobody gets to kiss you for it except me.” There’s a fierceness to Matt, a spark that John had seen flashes of during the Fire Sale, even during that crazy fight with Stinky (he can’t even remember the guy’s real name), and now it seems to be directed entirely at John.

He just hopes he can handle it.

“I thought you’d given up on that,” he taunts a little, because fuck, okay, maybe he’d been thinking about that kiss a _lot_ , and wondering what the hell Matt was waiting for. Or if he’d hallucinated the entire thing.

“Excuse me for not wanting to mack on some guy who was three seconds from passing out from a _brain injury_ ,” Matt shoots back, grinning. “Anyway, it’s in your release instructions, no activity that might—“

“—that might raise my blood pressure, yeah, yeah, I know.” John’s grinning hard, still, and he slides his hands down to Matt’s narrow hips. It’s been a long time since he’s done this, but he’s pleased to discover that his palms remember the shape of a man’s body, and it’s still the thrill it always was before.

“So no getting fresh,” Matt warns, even as he arches up into John’s touch like a cat, flexible and oh so pretty, and seriously, John’s mouth is starting to water, here, and he thinks, fuck my blood pressure. This is something I want, and something I can have.

“I really don’t like people telling me what I can and can’t do,” he says, low and semi-serious, just before he leans in that extra inch and seals his mouth over Matt’s.

Soft lips and the hint of stubble against his cheek, the quiet sound of Matt’s indrawn, startled breath, and yeah, this is what he’s been craving. Matt opens for him sweet as candy, licking his tongue when he pulls him close and goes for a deeper, hotter kiss. And god, it’s good, it’s so good he’s dizzy with it. Kissing and kissing, sucking on Matt’s tongue, drawing back just enough to lick Matt’s lips for him. Matt’s not some wilting violet, either…the hand on John’s neck is strong and sure, and when he pulls back, Matt chases the kiss insistently, going for it, eyes half-closed and face flushed and lips shiny and irresistible.

John doesn’t even try to resist.

He has no idea how long they spend standing there, making out in the bathroom like a couple of horny teenagers, but when Matt finally pulls back for real, gasping for air like he’s been underwater, John’s lips are numb and his mouth tastes more like Matt than like himself. He blinks, stupid with lust, as Matt puts a little distance between them, and then tries to tug him closer again.

“No, no, hey. Not until you get the all clear from the doctor.”

“Matt. Oh, you do not…you have GOT to be kidding me.”

Matt shakes his head, stubborn, twisting away from the hand that McClane’s got planted firmly on his ass. “You almost died, and there’s no way I’m going into that office and saying, hey doc, yeah, I couldn’t keep my pants on for two more days, so he had this relapse, and wow, how long is the coma gonna last _this_ time?”

“You have _GOT_ to be kidding me,” John repeats, but now it sounds alarmingly like he’s begging, and from the flash in his eyes, Matt’s hearing that too. He shakes his head, and John tightens his hands. “Matt, seriously, this is not something you do to a guy. Come on.”

“No means no, McClane,” Matt says, and it’s almost prim, though his eyes are laughing. “I’m pretty sure they must have covered that in sensitivity training. Don’t they make all you guys take that, now, in the NYPD?”

“Not a single class covered appropriate responses to the deliberate infliction of blue balls,” John grumbles, but he lets go of Matt and steps back, reluctantly. At least he can tell that Matt’s just as hard as he is, and the kid’s still flushed, and his hands are shaking just a little as he reaches out, brushes some hair off John’s shoulder. “Seriously, quit touching me.”

“It’s not teasing if I plan to follow through,” Matt tells him, but he steps back, too. Out of temptation’s reach, more or less, though it’d be a lot better if he was in a different room. John is still only wearing a towel, and his cock is seriously aching, it’s so hard, and the towel isn’t leaving anything to Matt’s imagination. Matt bites his lip and John throws his hands up in the air, turning around to face the sink again, refusing to even look at the kid.

“Get out of here, or we’re gonna be following through right now, fuck my blood pressure,” he growls, and he can hear Matt’s shaky breath, and the sound of his feet heading away.

“Don’t forget to call the DA,” Matt reminds him, and then he’s gone.

John closes the door, and gets a hand under his towel, bracing himself against the sink. Two hard pulls and he’s coming, groaning through gritted teeth and hoping Matt isn’t listening. It won’t do anything for his reputation if Matt knows that thirty seconds after he leaves, John’s coming harder than he has in fifteen years. He comes his brains out, shivering with aftershocks long moments after he finishes, and he leans his head against the wall, breathing hard.

That probably hadn't been so great for his blood pressure either. He can’t find it in himself to care.

***

The People vs. David G. Stanford is apparently in its beginning stages, from what John can gather from his call to the prosecuting attorney’s office. The lawyer sounds like a real jerkoff, but John isn’t expecting anything different, and he thinks he gets through to the guy on just how nuts Stinky really is. He calls his Captain, and gets yelled at to go rest, what does he think this is, vacation? He calls Holly, and it goes to voicemail. He calls Lucy and gets the same. He finds himself pacing up and down the living room, more worked up than he can remember being since getting hurt.

Matt’s nowhere to be found, he’s probably on one of his random shopping trips, cleared out while John’s temper still simmers from reliving the fight and talking to a lawyer. Smart kid. LUCKY kid. John can’t even leave his own house. It’s kind of like being on house arrest, only it’s “for his own good” and therefore he’s not supposed to bitch about it.

He calls the brain doctor, and gets his voicemail too. He leaves a probably-too-explicit message about the changes he’s going to make to his release instructions, and hangs up the phone. There has to be something he can do. It’s like the last five days of confinement all come slamming into him at once, he clenches his fists, paces a few more laps, and then thinks, screw it. He’s always been an active guy, it’s no wonder he’s going out of his mind, here.

He drops down and starts doing pushups, sit-ups, the routine that he’d abandoned for the last week, relishing the burn and stretch in his muscles, and listening for a key in the lock without even consciously realizing it. When the door swings open, he’s ready.

“Well, hey there.” In one quick move, he’s got Matt pinned against the wall beside the door. Matt, unfazed, peers at him over the top of the two brown paper grocery bags he’s got in his arms.

“Hey there yourself. You gonna grab one of these, or are you so busy being a caveman that you don’t care if all the food ends up on the floor?” Matt sounds genuinely curious, and John ducks his head, grinning. Yeah, okay, that was a little Neanderthal-ish, even for him.

“Guess who I called?” He grabs one of the bags, stepping back and giving Matt room to get the door closed and head to the kitchen. He watches him go, realizing how at home the kid is here, now.

“I hope the DA, since that’s the message I left you,” Matt answers over his shoulder.

“Yeah, I did that, but I called my doctor too. The blood pressure thing shouldn’t be a problem anymore.” He grins like a shark at Matt, who’s suddenly giving him his complete and undivided attention.

“Really? Without even going in for a checkup?” Matt looks skeptical but willing to be convinced, and John nods. He’s not exactly lying. The blood pressure thing really won’t be a problem, as long as he can get Matt to ignore it too.

“It won’t be a problem,” he repeats. “So you’d better get that put away quick, because otherwise it’s going to end up on the floor.”

“Pushy,” Matt accuses again, but he’s moving faster already.

“Tease,” John shoots back, and starts stalking him around the table. Matt laughs, and dodges, and this is amazing, this is pretty incredible, John’s never really felt like this with anyone before, this comfortable. He chuckles, he probably sounds like a crazy person to Matt, but he can’t help it.

“Emotional swings are a sign—McClane!—of possible brain injury, especially in people recovering from—John, seriously, John, McClane? Aw, shit—head trauma. John, cut it out!” Matt’s laughing almost too hard to move, and John catches him easily this time, and Matt doesn’t try to get away.

“Come on,” John says, “don’t make me throw you over my shoulder.”

“You really can take the caveman thing too far,” Matt informs him, but lets himself be manhandled out of the kitchen and towards the bed. John feels like his nerve ends are all waking up from a long sleep, sizzling into activity, and he steals little kisses even while his hands are trying to get Matt’s stupid Megadeth shirt off.

“Careful of your shoulder,” Matt gasps, and John _growls_ at him, and Matt shuts up. Some part of John files that away for future reference, and then he’s got his mouth back on Matt’s again, their shirts are off, and there’s all this really incredible skin for his hands to touch.

He cannot believe they’ve waited this long for this.

Tipping them gently onto the bed is another really, really great idea, because without having to concentrate on standing up, John can devote his entire attention to the amazing little noises Matt’s making. It shouldn’t surprise him that the kid is vocal in bed—he can’t shut up any other time, so why should he start now? But his own reaction to the little moans and gasps and mewls is startling, the way he rolls to pin Matt on the bed, the incredible jolt of lust that hits him hard in the belly as soon as Matt’s fly is open and he’s got his hand shoved in there, fingers brushing hot velvet skin.

“Oh my motherfucking god, McClane,” Matt says, going still, as John takes him in hand. John rolls again, so he’s on his side, off his bad shoulder, and so he can get a better angle. All he can hear is Matt’s panting breath, all he can feel is the slick slide of skin against his own, and he closes his eyes and concentrates on setting a rhythm. It’s a little tricky at first, because Matt won’t sit still, wriggles on the bed and shoves his hips up demandingly, strokes John’s shoulder and his hip in a totally distracting way, but John settles him with a word and a hand flat on his belly, and gets down to business.

His own cock is actually painful, now, against his fly, but he’s too distracted by Matt to give it more than a second’s thought. It’s quiet in his little room, and he can sense every breath Matt takes, and he gives a good hard yank on belt loops and Matt’s naked. John can’t stop staring at the way the filtered light coming in the small window turns Matt’s skin to bronze, or the way his long legs move restlessly on the crumpled sheets, or the sweep of his eyelashes when he looks up to meet John’s eyes.

Gorgeous.

“Is this some kind of revenge for earlier,” Matt gasps out, and John realizes he’s been staring for so long that his hand has gone still, and he shakes some sense back into his head.

“No, not that you don’t deserve it,” John tells him, giving the cock in his hand a pointedly hard, stripping pull. Matt gasps and arches again, and John grins. He can feel the beat of the blood under his fingers, sense how close Matt is in the way the tip of his cock is slicked with wetness, and he barely has time to stroke twice more and get his other hand down to cup Matt’s balls before the kid’s coming hard, it looks like, biting his lip and shaking his way through it, beautiful and actually, for once, silent.

John breathes, strokes Matt’s cock once more, then pulls away, shucking out of his jeans without ever taking his eyes off Matt. He looks like a wet dream, sprawled out and sated in John’s bed, and John’s half-tempted to just jerk off again, watching him, but he’s had a lot of time with his own hand lately, and he’d really like someone _else’s_ hand, since it’s a possibility.

“If you pass out right now, I am going to be so pissed at you,” John informs Matt, who cracks an eye at him and grins a slow, lazy grin that makes all kinds of promises.

“Do you really think I’m that rude?” Matt rolls up onto his elbow, and starts sliding his hand down John’s side, slow and teasing. He rubs a little at John’s belly, and John resists the urge to purr.

“Well, I wasn’t going to say anything…” John trails off with a drawn-in, heavy breath, as Matt reaches his goal, taking hold of his cock and twisting his wrist in this clever little move that makes fireworks go off behind John’s eyes.

The kid apparently has talent.

He tips over onto his back, opening himself up to Matt and his clever hands and his even more clever mouth. Silky-soft hair almost tickles him, brushing against his chest when Matt leans down and takes a nipple between his teeth, biting down gently, then licking the abused nub. John has no idea how Matt figured out how sensitive his nipples are—maybe just a lucky guess—but he almost comes out of his skin, and he can feel the vibration of Matt’s laughter where his mouth is still touching John’s chest.

This isn’t going to last long. In fact, it’s probably going to be over embarrassingly quickly. John forgets everything: the trial, Matt’s stalker, his own job, hell, his own NAME, and gets lost in the wash of sensation. Just the fact that he’s not alone is amazing; that he’s with someone like Matt, that he’s here with Matt himself, is blowing his mind.

“Matt, Matt, fuck, oh, fuck, kid, come on, harder, do it, do it,” he hears himself chanting, and Matt squeezes him warningly hard.

“Don’t call me ‘kid,’” he says, and bites down on John’s nipple again and flicks his wrist, and John comes, just like that, his spine feeling like it’s melting and shivering and shooting out his cock, leaving him wrecked and spent, breathing hard and fast and throwing one arm over his eyes, needing a second of darkness to pull himself together.

The phone rings. He ignores it. Matt ignores it. They lie there, panting, draped all over each other, not moving so much as an inch.

“John, this is Doctor Burrows,” the voice echoes out, amplified by the answering machine. It sounds like the doctor is smiling. Oh, shit. “I appreciate the message, and I’m glad you’re feeling better, but really, saying that you’re going to get laid if it kills you and for your doctor to just deal with it? Not the most diplomatic thing I’ve ever heard. Anyway, you should be okay for a little more exertion, as long as you’re not getting headaches, but don’t run any marathons, okay? Come in on Friday like we scheduled, and I’ll check you out then. Talk to you later, take care.”

The answering machine clicks off. John keeps his eyes closed.

“You’re a shit,” Matt says, finally, but he doesn’t sound all that upset, so John risks a look. Matt looks as wrung-out as he feels, and also kind of like he’s won the lottery. John takes that as a good sign. “You should totally pay me back by making me dinner.”

“I’ll order the pizza, how’s that?”

“If you get wings, too, you might be forgiven.”

“Do I get laid again tonight if I’m forgiven?” Matt laughs, shaking his head in a disbelieving kind of way. “What? I wanna know what the compensations are gonna be, before I go spending big money on wings.”

“Big money, right.” John feels the bed shift, and glances over, and Matt’s right there, smiling at him. Still with that kid-on-Christmas look on his face. “How about this. You get wings, you don’t kill yourself before your appointment Friday, and on Saturday, we can go get some more clothes and stuff from my place. And then you’ll be forgiven.” Even though he’s smiling, there’s something hesitant in Matt’s face, almost like he’s waiting for John to say it’s okay for him to stay. John reaches up and scrubs a hand through that ridiculous mop of hair.

Like he’d have let the kid stay in the first place, if he didn’t want him here forever?

“That sounds like a plan, kid.”

“ _MATT._ ”

“Whatever you say, kid.”

As he’s fending off a sudden and vicious pillow-attack, John thinks, for just a second, about life before, and how he’s not going to be eating alone tonight, or tomorrow night, or maybe, a lot of nights in the future. He tackles his way through the pillow barrage, gets Matt down on the bed, and dives in for another kiss.

This is his normal. Normal-ish. Whatever, it works for him, and maybe he’ll call Lucy and Holly and even Jack, tomorrow, and let them know how he’s doing. When he gets off the phone, Matt will be there to give him shit, he’s pretty sure, and maybe insist on them getting a bigger bed, and John? John can’t stop smiling.

[end]


End file.
